


impossible by design

by Livali



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, she's a teacher and she's a barista need i say more!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28148199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livali/pseuds/Livali
Summary: The phenomenon of magnetism, gravity, and dichotomization. Kirigiri says slowly and thoughtfully. Forces that are drawn to each other, or draw objects to them, regardless of what stands in their way. Unstopabble forces.Is this what you adore doing? Celeste asks. Applying logic to the conceptually impossible?I'm afraid, Kirigiri answers, the concept of soulmates is no science.or;Celestia Ludenberg meets her soulmate in a coffee shop situated in the streets of downtown Tokyo.
Relationships: Kirigiri Kyoko/Celestia Ludenberg
Comments: 24
Kudos: 79





	impossible by design

**Author's Note:**

> i've deliberated that the m rating is solid. hard m. so. yeah. haha. there's no violence and angst or anything just. it can get suggestive? sweet christ i broke my brain for this. 
> 
> anyways, this is for my discord pals! consider this an early merry christmas gift :]
> 
> insp: dreamstate – primrose 

When Celestia Ludenburg opens the doors to a little coffee shop situated in the busy streets of downtown Tokyo, she never expects to meet her soulmate. She’s nearly forgotten about the concept, in truth, and it’s such an antiquated notion anyways—loads of people go on their entire lives without meeting their soulmates; it’s not a flawless arrangement nor is there anything systematic in the works, and the world’s a big place. Many have learned to go about their business, thinking, hoping, waiting, but still moving on regardless.

There’s no use in applying logic to the conceptually impossible. It’s the story of every fairy tale, actually, or even some old-timey romance dramas. Make physical contact with the love of your life and your body will flush with the feeling of belonging, of peace, of home. Simple enough, but the idea is well-loved. All everyone wants to do is shake hands with a beautiful stranger and discover the rest of their lives together.

So when Celestia Ludenburg opens the doors to a little coffee shop situated in the busy streets of downtown Tokyo, she never expects to meet her soulmate.

Oh, but she does.

* * *

When she arrives to the café and takes the table nearby the window, it doesn’t cross her mind why she was compelled to go here in the first place. She’s no stranger to the capital—she’s lived here for many years now—but she’s never branched out of Togami’s recommendations before. Maybe it was the impression, the rumors, the reviews she’s seen on several coincidental occasions, everyone and their lovers urging her to go, and she’s not so much of a bitch anymore to not try it out in the end, you know? 

But none of that actually crosses her mind anyway, because within minutes, it becomes apparent to her how much she was missing out.

The establishment itself is small, quaint, but she’s seen enough sights in her life to know how to read people, and what she sees immediately captivates her. The ambience is pleasant, the other patrons know to only mind their business, and the three baristas working there are some of the most interesting people she’s met in a while.

One of them is a complete airhead who seems to talk about conspiracy theories and obscure philosophies at any chance given, and flings these at her in rapid succession the moment she approaches the counter to state her order; another chides him to stop bothering the customers, gives her an apologetic smile and writes down the rough translated syllables of her first name and starts working on what she came for in the first place; and the third pays no mind to everything happening around her, seemingly paying zero interest to the banter of her colleagues, tired and expressionless.

The third one, she’s the one who approaches and questions her, in a dry, bored sort of voice, carrying her order and placing the cup of royal milk tea on the table. This particular barista is also the one who actually forces Celeste to renounce her initial impression about the employees of this little business being a pack of simpletons.

Objectively, they’re all rather good-looking, but something about the last one draws her in: she’s confident, assured in the way she carries herself—that much she can admit, give or take—the silky lavender hair tied in a low ponytail and studded gloves are the first features that she notices, and it does nothing but fan the flames of her curiosity even further.

Celeste can’t rationalize the sudden curling in the pit of her stomach or the way the air forsakes her lungs when their eyes meet; the woman’s just standing there, staring at her dumbly, the same way Celeste is, both caught off-guard. It’s not a variation of starstruck that holds her bound to where she is. It’s that Celeste’s suddenly, incomprehensibly sure that she knows her, that she’s met her thousands of times; not like seeing an old friend, but something else.

There’s a familiarity she can’t explain, an intimacy. Her pulse beats wildly in her mouth, at the very top of her spine, pounds against the curve of her thumb, throbs in the veins of her wrists. Something blooms in her, spreading and narrowing, and she’s strangely off-balance as if the entire world has tilted several degrees without her knowing. She’s grown a few centimeters. The skies aren’t where she’s seen it last. The earth’s an entirely different structure.

The clarity seems to come back to the stranger first—her stare focuses, throat closing over a swallow. She slips one of her gloved hands out of her pockets, lets them hang loose; Celeste watches the way they flex, lithe and inviting.

And so, here’s the truth:

Celeste decides she hates her from the moment she lays eyes on her.

She knows it’s dramatic—she can imagine Togami telling her that once and twice and fifty-seven times in the same snide, condescending drawl—but she can’t shake the feeling, can’t unravel it at the source; she’s said this so much times but she will say this again to prove her point: she can _read_ people, and what she finds baffles her. There’s something beyond the stoic, exhausted exterior, something _searching_ , but with an edge, a powerful drive simmering underneath. This one seems too _knowing_ , and that’s the problem. Too clever, like the only life she’s ever known is one enshrouded in questions and it was her responsibility to answer each and every one. She seems charming and beautiful and knowledgeable, and those are the kind of people Celeste would love to unfold and watch falling apart, but loathe to face head on.

“Celeste,” the barista recites, and Celeste hates to admit it, but she adores the way the stranger’s lips shape her name. Inflection rather flat, but under the surface it’s curious. Analytical. _Familiar_. “Your order?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Oh, you’re new here,” another woman says, and she realizes this was the other one at the counter earlier, the one reprimanding the guy who tried to take her order. “Tourist?”

“No, I live in a complex here. I’m just curious, but it’s charming so far,” she manages, still breathless, but the approachable vibe of the café seemed to be helping her calm down. “At least, before I try your products here.”

“Hah, I get it, I get it!” The new one giggles, slowly walking back behind the counter. “You’re like one of those critics, I get it—don’t worry though, the stuff here is great! The regulars can guarantee that.”

She gives a small, modest smile. “I’ll still be the judge of that.”

“…why here though?” The barista—the really pretty one—asks as soon as her co-worker disappears into the kitchen.

“Pardon?” Celeste asks, startled.

“This place is ways off the main road, so it’s not really popular.” She says again, gaze intent and voice sharp like this was an interrogation. Celeste tries to not crumble under the weight of her stare. “You seem like you know your way around. How did you end up all the way here?”

She says this all fast and quiet, and while this person was a complete stranger, Celeste can understand her line of questioning. “It’s not for a ridiculous reason in particular,” she starts. “Just an urge.” 

“I see.” The barista studies her for a moment as though she knew exactly what she meant, then begins to walk away. “Have a nice day, miss.”

“Wait,” she says. “Your name? I may become a regular anyways, might as well know your names.”

“We have name tags.” A new voice interrupts again, and it’s the first one she met earlier, leaning over the counter and pointing to the object in question. “Hagakure Yasuhiro, nice to meet you!”

“Hagakure-san,” she parrots wryly, surreptitiously ignoring his first name. “Likewise.”

“Oh, we’re doing introductions?” The other one from the kitchen says, holding a few plastic cups. She places them down at a station behind the counter and goes to Celeste, taking her hand in for a humble shake; and absolutely nothing happens. No stars, no fireworks, nothing. Neither of them are too upset about it. “Asahina Aoi—oh, and I already met my soulmate, so don’t be surprised or anything.”

“Asahina-san,” she repeats amusedly. Celeste then turns to the woman she asked this question to in the first place, but the barista doesn’t make a move. “And you?”

“Kirigiri Kyoko.” She deadpans, and that’s all she seems to offer to the conversation.

“Kirigiri-chi’s not very touchy-feely.” Hagakure informs her with a laugh. “I can get about fifty percent of one hug in before she starts going all porcupine on me.”

“Yes, and I wish you didn’t—”

“Anyways,” Asahina cuts in. “I hope you enjoy your time here. I swear the food and drinks are good! Trust me.”

“She only says that because she’s the chef,” Hagakure snickers. “Let me tell you, when the gang started this place out, she was _awful_. I think there was this time she made Makoto-chi—a friend of ours—choke on her first attempt on pot roast and—”

“ _Stoooop_ ,” Asahina whines helplessly, pushing him away from them and back into the kitchen. “That’s way too much bad crap about me you’re saying to someone we just met you little—”

Kirigiri shakes her head fondly at their bickering, and Celeste can feel the woman staring before her own eyes have even flickered over to her. “I’m sorry about them, I think that’s enough breaks for us today.” The barista says, offering her a half-smile, and Celeste’s heart skips a beat, once, maybe twice, briefly. “You don’t seem like a homicidal runaway from the police, so I suppose you’re welcome to come back anytime—like we have any say in what you do for the matter.”

Celeste raises an eyebrow and tries at a smile. She brings the drink she ordered to her lips, takes on sip, and enjoys it, even more so than what she used to go to. (She reluctantly starts contemplating on changing her schedules just a bit to make time for coming here once in a while.) “Maybe I will. I trust you will all be respectable? As I will do the same.”

“Score!” She hears Asahina say. “Totally. Don’t worry, I’ll keep Yasuhiro-kun in check, I don’t think you want to hear him talk about time machines and whatever weird thing he’s seen on the internet if you’re coming here to wind down or anything.”

“Hey, time machines are cool,” he interjects. “Like—like the concept you know? Call it a para—para—shit, what’s the word? You can use it for soulmates and stuff too. Something important happens and it’s _bam!_ Para—it’s on the tip of my tongue. Para—uh—”

“Paradigm shift.” Kirigiri completes for him. “The word you’re looking for is paradigm shift.”

“Yeah!” He smiles widely, giving a thumbs up from the counter. “Thanks, Kirigiri-chi.”

Kirigiri sighs.

Celeste giggles at the exchange.

“I cannot follow this conversation at all.” Asahina groans, cleaning a nearby table. “But hey, cool, new regular at least! Right? Uh—Celeste-san?”

“I believe so,” but it isn’t Hagakure’s enthusiasm who sells her on it, or even Asahina, eager to make a new friend, silently begging her with her eyes. She looks at Kirigiri and says, for reasons she can’t explain, “What do you think, Kirigiri-san?”

The woman meets her gaze, hands shoved in her pockets, and answers quietly, “I think… it’ll be nice.”

“And I, you.” Celeste manages, her mouth dry, and that was all there was to it.

* * *

(Kyoko is immediately drawn to her the moment she lays eyes on her.

She wants to unravel everything about her. It’s an unexpected development, but she also knows it’s true. The attraction is instantaneous, like striking one match in a room coated in gasoline, plunging a frozen digit into boiling water; Celeste approaches the counter and misses a step, heels clacking loudly on the wooden floorboards. _That_ was the first tell.

She places her order, looks at her fully and stills, staring at Kyoko with an expression similar to the way you’d observe the universe. In the way you would gaze at the stars, supernovae, galaxies colliding; there’s awe, there’s curiosity, eyes trailing all over Kyoko’s body and holding her gaze, her pretty mouth slightly open, searching for words. She’s absolutely gorgeous, irises like blood and a mind Kyoko can sense a cyclone in from kilometres away, and now she doesn’t know what to do with herself because the sensations are mirrored to her own end anyway.

But Celeste’s expression steels suddenly, lips pressing into a narrow line, smile too polite to be anything but a mask.

“Your order?” Kyoko asks simply.

“Yes, thank you.” Celeste answers, and it sounds like she’s saying I want you dead and skinned alive.

She blinks. Oh, that’s interesting, but if that’s how things are going to be, she wasn’t going to stop her. Besides, she thinks, no offense taken. She can’t do anything about denial.

After all, it’s no secret: Celestia Ludenburg seems to despise Kirigiri Kyoko. Seems to loathe her with every inch of her being, glares at her whenever she enters the café, actively avoids touching her as if one single graze will draw death. But she still talks to her, still looks at her like she’s the only puddle of water in a scorching drought, still stares at her like she’s the only fresh piece of meat she’s seen in miles.

Kyoko rolls up the sleeves of her white dress shirt, and Celeste’s eyes linger just a little too long on her arms as she distractedly discards empty bottles into the recycling, mouth curling into a frown. Kyoko smirks with intent, a little too lopsided to be casual, and then turns around, reaching for a tray; Celeste’s cheeks are pink and she’s studiously averting her gaze when Kyoko faces back to her direction.

So, actually, scratch that. Kyoko knows what’s going on. Knows what she wants. Knows what the other wants. But still has no idea what to do with herself. Obviously, she can figure it out; that’s what the college degree and reading hobby was for.

Following through that, however, remains to be seen.)

* * *

Interacting with all three of them at once is the most exhausting, unbelievable, entertaining experience Celeste’s ever had. But the surprising twist is that—she doesn’t mind at all.

She settles into a new routine, driving by on Monday, Wednesdays and the weekends. Asahina makes nice company after she’s learned to keep up with her spontaneity, and Celeste listens to her talk about her girlfriend slash soulmate on break times. Hagakure, on the other hand, is a little difficult to get used to, and _certain_ discrepancies aside, he’s a comical force of nature. On his days off he works as a bartender at another friend’s pub; sometimes Kirigiri joins him (to get shit-faced or keep her friend alive until the end of his shift, she doesn’t clarify), and Celeste’s invited, too, and there’s nothing to resist about decent company and trying to outdo Kirigiri Kyoko, so she follows.

To her chagrin, the almost alcohol-free lifestyle she was having is definitely thrown out of the window at this point.

Kirigiri herself, finally, is fucking annoying. She prefers blending into the woodwork most times, though doesn’t mind company—but with Celeste is an entirely different story. She could _swear_ whatever is happening between them is on _purpose_.

There’s only that to discredit about the barista, unfortunately. She’s quiet, reserved, atrociously intelligent, and somewhat abrasive to the degree of rudeness—whether this was how she normally was or intentionally provoking Celeste herself, only time will tell. But what Celeste really hates about her the most is that she’s nice to talk to when she’s around, being an avid reader of the same interests and capable of keeping up with her to the point of turning conversations on its own head. She definitely hasn’t been this troubled by one person in a while, and she hates it.

“Pst, eighty degree angle,” Hagakure whispers to Celeste, completely senseless. “Down the bar. Some dude is staring at you. You can look, but try to look like you’re not looking.”

All of them (sans Kirigiri) turn to look at once, of course. The man in question seems startled by all the pairs of eyes on him and quickly turns away. Asahina laughs and says, “Oops. My bad.”

“Unfortunate,” Celeste says loudly to make a point, rolling her eyes and playing with the small shot glass in her hand. “I’m not interested in men.”

"Called it." Asahina snorts. "Yasuhiro-kun, you owe me five hundred. It really does take one to know one.”

“Aw,” he groans. “Damn it.”

“You know better than to bet with me!” She says cheerfully, sticking out her tongue and laughing. “I haven’t been wrong in _eight_ years.”

“Sitting right here, you two.” Celeste reminds them wryly.

“You’ll get used to it.” Kirigiri chimes in, sitting on Hagakure’s other side. (Something about him being the buffer for the sexual tension, or whatever.)

“No, I don’t think I will.” She quips. “There’s a lot of surprises with the three of you, it seems.”

“Well, you _have_ to get used to it,” Asahina grins and raises a glass. “You’re stuck with us—wait—with _Kyoko-chan_ of all people, couldn’t you seriously have picked someone else to do your weird mating ritual with?”

Hagakure laughs raucously. “Oh—oh, Hina-chi that’s _good_ —”

“I swear.” Celeste mumbles, rubbing her temples. “You people are embarrassing.”

Asahina snickers. “Well it’s not like you’re making a move anyway so—”

“Reminder that I, too, am sitting here.” Kirigiri drawls, finishing the rest of her cider.

“Drat,” Hagakure says.

“How’s the day job working for you, Celeste-san?” Kirigiri asks, diffusing the tension, leaning on her arm to look around Hagakure at her.

“Could be better,” she replies, thankful for the distraction. “God, high school students are a bloody nightmare.”

“I see.”

Asahina grimaces. “Oh yeah, you’re a history teacher. Thinking back to how horrible Yasuhiro-kun and I were at listening back in high school, I don’t think that’s a fun time.”

“I can imagine.” Celeste says, amused.

“Heh, I had the attention span of a french fry and Hina-chi was part of the varsity,” Hagakure explains further. “I couldn’t keep up because I had a hard time focusing, and Hina-chi just didn’t feel like listening to lectures in the first place.”

“Well, if you put it that way then it sounds _really_ bad,” Asahina giggles. “It’s more like I was stubbornly paying attention to what I only liked and I forgot the rest of the world actually existed, you know?”

“Hear, hear,” Hagakure says, wiping away a stain.

“You were both lukewarm compared to actual troublemakers, anyway.” Kirigiri says coolly, and then sighs. “He’s still looking at you, Celeste-san.”

She glances back over, and objectively, there’s nothing too bad; attractive, mid-twenties, probably the same age as her, wearing a suit and an overcoat. Of course, she didn’t like men, so the observation is mostly fruitless. She says, “Shame, but not really. Any volunteers though?”

Hagakure grins, “I mean, he was only staring at our direction—not just one person. Might as well.” Asahina cackles, patting Hagakure on the back. But it’s Kirigiri who surprises her most of all by replying, “There’s no harm in talking to him then. But only if you fancy to.”

Celeste observes Hagakure as he goes thoughtfully quiet for a second, and then shrugs. She echoes, “As she said, no harm.”

He puts one finger on his chin, then nods eagerly. “Yeah, might as well! I’m on break anyway.”

They all watch him walk over to the man, sitting in the empty stool next to him. They chat up for a few minutes, and going past the initial surprise, the stranger seems to be enjoying himself; they were having a pleasant time, at the very least.

Asahina laughs into her palms, dropping her head against the bar. Celeste simply shakes her head. Kirigiri says with a fond and exhausted smile, “That was fast.”

“The Hagakure charm at work,” Asahina adds, straightening herself with a smirk. “Does it look like there’s any fireworks or explosions going on?”

Kirigiri looks at them out of the corner of her eye. “Nothing,” she confirms, after she watches Hagakure pat him on the arm. “Only two people in the city’s best bar, no strings attached.”

“So, the usual?” Asahina waves it off.

“Seems to be the case.” Celeste says simply.

Hagakure returns moments later. Kirigiri asks, “Ah, not your type?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Dude’s waiting for his soulmate,” he says.

“So he’s one of those.” Celeste rolls her eyes, beckoning Hagakure to pour her and Kirigiri another shot of rum.

“Aren’t we all?” Asahina laughs ruefully. “No one can compete.”

She’s not wrong; the concept is archaic, sure, but it still happens, and no one hasn’t heard of the classic tragedy about two people falling madly and utterly in love with each other, only for one of them to meet their soulmate and nothing else in the universe compares, even including their previous partner. Celeste grimaces. It’s not a pleasant thought, and it’s why the majority of people refrain from becoming intimately involved with someone they’re not meant to be with.

She downs her last shot.

Kirigiri catches her staring, and Celeste proceeds to pretend the entire night didn’t happen.

* * *

It might be fate just mocking her at this point, but her attraction to Kirigiri Kyoko grows over time.

She hides it well, or as well as she think she does; pretends it’s a coincidence she comes by right in stride with her shifts so often, so close together, but not touching. Never touching. She abandons her spot by the window and sits closer to the counter to make small talk. Kirigiri sometimes serves her extras from the kitchen under the excuse of taste-testing, and Celeste sees through it immediately the first time, but doesn’t tell her to stop.

Asahina and Hagakure’s bickering is like background noise. Kirigiri is quiet, and so is she; they chat idly about their days, interests, hobbies. Kirigiri likes reading detective novels, Poirot, reads history, science too, and for Celeste it’s a pleasant surprise. There’s a lot of interesting things said, she decides. Lorenz’ chaos theory, debates on Marx ideologies, among other things, but Kirigiri’s certain brand of dry wit remains a solid factor in them all the same.

(A paradigm shift, Kirigiri says. Vesalius and his anatomy, Galileo and his stars, Wegener and his drifting continents, Hypatia and her neoplatonism. Fundamental changes in the very bases of the concept of things, the discoveries made in previously unexplored or accepted scientific practices. Newer hypotheses.

Celeste smiles at her explanation, working her way through a slice of cheesecake. She says, oh, is that what you’re calling it truly? Rephrase it—call it a breakthrough. Call it progress.

They don’t touch. Kirigiri shifts her head, leaning slightly against the counter, catching her eye. The bubble they’re in remains an undefined variable. The fire crackles. There’s this dance—the name of it escapes Celeste at the moment—but it relies on the two participants never even brushing hands, held mere inches away, delicate and yet dynamic in nature.

Electricity is augmented, she thinks of telling her. Because they can’t touch. They refuse to touch. The air between them turns into a storm.

Kirigiri’s eyebrows are furrowed. She stares at her intently, analytically, chin on her palm. Why so? She asks. I’m no scientist.

Me neither, Celeste says. But more often than not, the simplest answer is the right answer.

Explain it to me.

To put it clearly, Celeste says knowingly, doesn’t _not_ having someone only make you want them more?)

There’s a certain score to keep between her and Kirigiri—points going to who is tipped out of balance by the end of whatever they were doing—Asahina and Hagakure like to pretend they aren’t there. They like to watch everything unfold, and she is no imbecile to not notice them, watching Kirigiri turn the page of her book every two minutes while Celeste’s own sits untouched on her table. She stares, Kirigiri stares back, the two in the background watch with bated breath, and then she disrupts the tension and says, “I’ll take another serving of the usual,” leaving the two to trail back into the kitchen uncomfortably.

Thirty minutes later, after one serving and more awkward stillness, Kirigiri puts her novel aside nonchalantly and runs a hand through her hair; Celeste stares shamelessly. She says, “On break. I’m thinking of grabbing lunch somewhere, join me?”

“Yes.” Loathe the desperation she may, the words still fly out of her mouth like a gunshot. “I'd love to.”

They hear Hagakure choke on a glass of water from the other end of the café, but they both ignore him and head out.

She thinks she hides it well, but Hagakure confronts her on a Sunday afternoon a week after witnessing the earlier event. She’s typing away on her laptop and grading history quizzes at her usual table when Hagakure approaches her with a grin; she raises a brow and then rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”

His smile grows wider. “So,” he starts.

She’s waiting for an email so she’s not paying that much attention. She hums in confusion and tries to repeat, “So?”

He smirks. “How was it?” He asks casually, whistling afterwards.

She opens the Excel app. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, okay, _okay,_ ” he replies wisely, nodding. “I see. We’re playing that game.”

“What game?" She pauses, understandably puzzled. He says weird and random things all the time, so it’s not unusual for him to pop out of the blue with some arbitrary out-of-context or confusing statement, usually followed by Asahina dragging him away or Kirigiri rubbing her forehead in the background.

Unluckily for her, this isn’t one of those times. She glances at him over the screen. His smirk grows wider, showing all of his teeth. He looks like a lion, and for a quick moment, she gets a disturbing image of him literally ripping her to pieces. He says, “That game where you pretend you don’t have a super duper giant crush on Kirigiri-chi, and I call your lying ass out on it.”

She actually freezes. Hagakure can be annoyingly astute around the odd (and worst) times; it’s probably because the situation has absolutely nothing to do with him in the first place. She shushes him hurriedly, putting a finger over her lips—he’s talking rather loudly over the chatter of the other patrons, and she imagines Kirigiri walking in from the kitchen, having heard every word.

She scowls. “Are you fucking mad?”

“Huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about any of this,” she says lowly, venom in her voice. “And I don’t want her finding out, so shut your damn mouth, are we clear?”

“Uh, sure? Yeah. Yes, ma’am,” he says, backing away with his hands in the air. He mimes locking his lips with a zipper, smiling hugely.

“I want you dead,” she mouths to him.

He winks and mutters, “At least she likes you too,” and pops chewing gum in his mouth.

It takes her one, two, three—

“I know,” escapes from her before she has a chance to take it back.

Hagakure stares at her, and then his smirk grows wider. “Oh, _oh_ , so _that’s_ how it is.”

“You—you—”

It’s too late. He shrugs, pointing at the wrapper of the gum, suggesting that he can’t answer. She frowns at him and says, “Take it out of your fucking mouth—” But he shakes his head in bewilderment, acting like he can’t hear her, running back to the counter. She waves impatiently. “Hagakure-kun—”

He turns around while running, smiles, clasps his hands together and mouths, “I am super sorry!”

Her eyes twitch. “Don’t you dare tell her or else I’ll—”

She can hear him cackling loudly all the way to the kitchen. The other customers only look on, perplexed.

* * *

(“You’re thinking about her again,” a voice says from the doorway.

Kyoko doesn’t move her head from the arm of the couch, staring up, her gaze stopping at the bright smile of Asahina’s face. She turns her head to the side, and stares at the bookshelves. One-fourth of them are her journals. Half are her novels. The rest are everyone else’s. There’s so much of her in there. Hers, a lot of hers. So much to learn within them. So much to unravel. But none of it have the answers to what she was looking for at the moment.

It isn’t an eye-opening observation, so she doesn’t respond.

Asahina’s fingers slide against the wood as she enters the living room. She says, “You two are so weird.”

Kyoko’s lips turn into a small smile. The fire crackles. It’s always crackling. It never dies, just like everything else. Systematic process. Methodology. The inevitability. Law of attraction. Unending. Boundless.

“It’s fun,” she says, stare unmoving, “if I’m being honest.”

Asahina giggles. “For real?”

She’s far from ignorant; Celeste’s attention is tied to her as if on string, or heavier, like rope. Her infatuation is so poorly masked Kyoko can’t comprehend how she tricks herself into believing it, let alone think she’s fooling anyone else. She’s not certain what the disconnection really is; maybe Celeste thinks she’s beneath her, maybe she doesn’t have any idea what emotions are.

But she catches Celeste worrying a lip between her teeth with her brow furrowed, catches the way her nails dig so deep into her palms it’s enough to draw blood, catches the strangely longing look in her eyes when she can’t turn away fast enough, and Kyoko is sure Celeste knows this herself: the magnetism is two-sided.

She’s been putting this off for way too long, but maybe it’s pettiness, maybe it’s to keep the score, but she’s sure to take the initiative for now. At the moment it’s all scathing glares and grimaces, haughty superiority, intentional avoidance and ignorance, a pit of knowledge against knowledge. And it’s really, really distracting.

That’s the problem: Kirigiri Kyoko never had a type before, but now she’s slowly being proven wrong—soulmates are so, so far in the back of her mind. Celestia Ludenburg, with her dark hair and her drills and her eyes like blood, all slender and imposing in her heels, talking enough just to appeal, but never enough to tease. She’s almost unreadable when composed, keeps her air of mystery like a personality trait, just begging for someone to unravel her. Which, well, is essentially Kyoko’s goal.

“I want to raw her.” Kyoko tells Asahina seriously, who stares at her, closes her eyes, and breathes steadily for four, six, eight seconds—

“…no. Just no.” She says, face red and flustered. “If you say that to me again, I will find a new shift that’s far _, far_ away from the two of you. Dear _god_.”

“Hm, you’ve heard worse.” Kyoko says flatly, still staring at the bookshelves across the room.

“Of course I have,” she scoffs. “I swear—I’m—I’m like, I’m surprised you two aren’t mounting each other over the damn counter every time you start talking.”

“That’s called public indecency,” Kyoko deadpans. “But if she’s into that, then maybe…”

“No!” Asahina slaps her elbow. “Do _not_ say another word. I’m going to blow an artery because of you, I swear.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s not possible, unless you’re in an explosion.”

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know,” Asahina taps her chin. “This one guy in that American show did. Grey’s Anatomy or something.”

“I don’t need your support anyway,” Kirigiri says blankly. “She’s knows too. There’s just no way she’s admitting that and making the first move.”

“I knew you were patient, but seeing that she might be the potential love of your life, I’m surprised you’re even waiting at all,” Asahina observes idly, sinking into the love seat. “She clearly wants you to.”

“To what?” Kyoko asks, having lost track of the conversation.

Asahina’s mouth curves, cheeks wobbling as she struggles not to laugh. “Raw her.”

Kyoko only chuckles in response.

“Watching you two is giving me physical pain,” Asahina shakes her head. “Are you even going to follow through with what you say anyway?”

“Think of it like a dance,” Kyoko says vaguely. “Think of it like Newton’s first law, like inertia, and there’s this dance. It has this romance to it, this certain thing, and you’re not supposed to touch. It’s improper and—”

“Simple Japanese, please.”

“A dance.” She says again, mysteriously. “It’s a paradigm shift.”

Asahina puts her head in her hands and groans.)

* * *

It gets harder and harder to deal with everything after Hagakure’s interference, Celeste muses. She starts noticing small, accidental quirks of Kirigiri’s that turn her on immensely, and she can’t explain why: Kirigiri has a habit of unconsciously tapping the nearest hard surface when she’s thinking, ruffling her lavender locks when she’s not sure what to say, pushing her hair behind her ears as though it was a muscle memory. Celeste bites her lip and crosses her legs and tries not to think about any of it. She’s so unbelievably drawn to Kirigiri and she _hates_ it. She’s positive (no), from her perspective, that it’s completely one-sided. Hagakure was riling her up, obviously, and that was the only valid explanation.

Although, after another well-timed interruption by Kirigiri just as a man was about to go near her table, Hagakure drags her into the parking lot and looks around as though to confirm no one else followed them out, and then looks at her with an excited smile. “See? _See?_ ”

She stares blankly at him. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” he says, exasperated. “Do you seriously not get what’s going on here?”

She waits for a continuation, and when there isn’t one, she frowns. “No, Hagakure-kun, I don’t.”

He throws up his hands dramatically, and then drops them back to his sides, staring her dead in the eye. “Uh, how do I say this,” he starts. “Do you seriously think Kirigiri-chi is that thick that she just _happens_ to interfere with every single person who’s tried to go to your table to ask you out?”

“Yes?" She answers dubiously, but it sounds weak even to her own ears.

“Nope,” he says quickly, before the word has even finished leaving her mouth. “You’re smarter than this. You _know_ this.”

“How do you know?" She questions defensively, narrowing her eyes. “Body language isn’t solid proof to me.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groans impatiently. “You’re both just playing petty at this point. You’re not dumb, you know she likes you and she knows you like her back.”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” she sighs.

“No— _no_ , look, she never used to be this outgoing. She was always bored and lounging around reading and just making stops at the local library—she never even went out to get lunch and just cooks _here_. But ever since you started becoming a regular, she basically plans her days around being in the same place as you, _and_ only you, as much as possible.” He says frantically, waving his arms around in exaggerated motions. “I told you, she’s just fucking with you now. She doesn’t actually know how to deal with it.”

Her heart sort of stumbles over itself, conflicted. She can’t deny that level of reasoning or observation, no matter how convoluted it may be, but still, it’s hard for her to believe—Kirigiri Kyoko is so enigmatic and difficult to read, almost impossible to interpret; it drives her insane.

“I need—I need time to process this,” she says, brushing by him and back into the café, where Asahina and Kirigiri were now debating on how to properly hold a vacuum, for some bizarre reason. They falter for one second when she walks past them to get her belongings, and by the time she’s leaving, they’re not speaking at all.

She can’t help it. She sinks into the driver’s seat of her car and laughs.

* * *

Asahina and Hagakure are out eating lunch at the diner down the street, business is slow this week so Kirigiri’s allowed to man alone, and they’re too close.

They don’t start out that way, of course, but in the times when they’re alone all the space they’re in becomes suddenly smaller than it used to be; there’s a bunch of invisible hands clutching and grasping around their spines, pushing them together. Kirigiri is so, so close—lesser than an arm’s reach away. The world seems to be reconfiguring the pieces, she thinks of saying. An artist adjusting the architecture. It’s inexplicable. But she knows what it means.

Call it the pendulum, Kirigiri will always tell her instead, I can explain it. The paradigm shift. Her mouth is in a curl, her eyes sparkling and glimmering. She’s easier to read this way—maybe Celeste herself is, too, their moments alone just have that kind of effect. Maybe they are just mazes and mirrors, both of them lost.

Perhaps I can as well, Celeste finally says out loud. There’s this famous dance—it has a name, she thinks, the box step but without the touching of hands, the grazing of limbs. There’s a certain component—a specific sort of coquetry—and there’s no touching; it’s against the rules set. It destroys the artistry, the subtlety and beauty and pining and longing. The atmosphere needs to be charged. (Electricity is augmented, she remembers saying. There needs to be two.)

Kirigiri gawks, and asks. Teach me. It sounds like a command. She dislikes not knowing.

She explains, the phenomena of magnetism. The simplest answer is often the right answer. You’re outrageously brilliant to the point of insensitivity. This is easy for you to figure out, Kirigiri-san.

Kirigiri stares down, the milk tea left cold, meeting her eyes. Her gloved fingertips are tapping against the tabletop, almost nearing her own, but at the last second she draws away. The fire crackles. The fire is always crackling.

You teach history, Kirigiri begins. And yet, I’m thinking—

Yes? Keep going.

The phenomenon of magnetism. Gravity. Dichotomization. She says the words slowly and thoughtfully. Forces that are drawn to each other, or draw objects to them, regardless of what stands in their way. Unstopabble forces.

Is this what you adore doing? Celeste asks, leaning in slightly. Applying logic to the conceptually impossible?

I’m afraid the concept of soulmates is no science, her voice is soft. But I enjoy dismantling and learning about the systems that have led me here. We all know this world. We know how it devours.

And here I thought I was the teacher, Celeste replies, staring at the window, staring out at the sea of people, the moving bodies, the way they keep to the sidewalks like a beacon, their only lifeline, only echo of connection, like _magnets_ —she thinks she has to agree. The answer’s more tangible here; anything can happen, it says, but only if you choose to let it; oh, touch her or don’t.

Is this what you fondly call your paradigm? She continues, asking playfully. Is this your pendulum? Is this what we call it? A fundamental revolution in the very concept of things?

Well, Kirigiri begins, I can’t think of another name; can you?

Celeste smiles. She sees Kirigiri’s breath catch, and the world is over to them both.

I have a name for what you are, she says candidly. Copernicus, his solar system, heliocentrism. Published around fifteen fourty-three.

The sun is the center of the universe, Kirigiri recites, amused.

They still don’t touch.

* * *

(She and Celeste are alone again. Maybe it’s an accident; maybe it’s not. There’s no time for semantics when the café doors swing shut and her two other friends are already blocks away.

“Caesar?” Kyoko asks dryly. “Or the usual? I can add a muffin, if you like.”

Celeste swallows. Kyoko watches her, tension rising suddenly like the tide, the air too full of insinuation. Consumed with what’s to transpire. She looks like she doesn’t want to allow a glance, but she still becomes the center of any space she’s in, and Kyoko can’t look anywhere without it being directly at her.

“Both, and maybe an espresso even if I think it’s disgusting,” Celeste says shortly, staring back, visibly attempting to keep her composure in check. “I’ve got tests from yesterday to grade.”

“What about?” Kyoko pries casually, holding her gaze. “You didn’t drag them through hell, did you?”

“Don’t worry,” Celeste supplies, breaking eye contact. She opens her laptop, cheeks pink. “I’m feeling particularly merciful this semester.”

She hums, forces her eyes away from Celeste’s chest, her hips, her thighs; the way in which her tongue slips out bare across her bottom lip. Celeste narrows her eyes, smile polite and dangerously thin, but doesn’t make a point to speak. Kyoko can imagine the cogs in her head turning—why should I, she reasons logically and so logically, why should I have to talk when you can do it for me; the excuses are so weak Kirigiri doesn’t dare speak about them aloud, letting them swirl around the bottom of her _friend’s_ skull in disarray.

Celeste’s mouth begs for rain in a desert. Kyoko’s smile is small, but it cracks, cracking like the ground, carnivorous.

“The Sealing of the Magna Carta,” Kyoko says, staring at the papers laid out on the table, and her voice is quiet in the same way loading a bullet into a chamber is. Her hand is close to Celeste’s again, and the motion is a familiar memory to both.

“Yes,” Celeste answers lowly, her fingers drawing close, practically tapping at the leather of the glove, “World history for this quarter—this one specifically around year twelve fifteen and an introduction to habeas corpus,” but Celeste takes her hand away, and Kyoko’s expression finally cracks, pupils expanding, lips parting; the want is tangible, and she feels her own stomach rolling, feels the urge to take her gloves off, feels how badly she needs the sensation of skin on skin. She doesn’t let it affect her outwardly however, and it only serves to make Celeste angrier, the disappointment at the lack of any major reaction visibly ripping through her like a tightening coil.

“Sorry.” Kyoko says purposely, and Celeste glowers weakly at her.

“Funny,” Celeste says simply. “You think you’re very funny, are you?”

“I do,” she says, “I know why."

Her lips are tilting; her eyes are bright. There’s a dance, she thinks, and they’re not supposed to touch, the box step without the touching, she remembers Celeste saying, but she doesn’t care since she’s so tired of dancing anyway. The fire crackles. Celeste’s writing in beautiful kanjis on the side of her students’ papers, like pouring everything into the ink, bleeding herself dry. Her fingers are deft and fluid.

She wants to elaborate the concept. Why? Kyoko asks her two different things. Why can’t they touch?

This is your beloved paradigm, Celeste says. The sophists and their relativism. Mendell and his peas. Pythagoras and mathematics. You’re a clever woman, Kirigiri-san. I believe you can answer your own question.

Wrong, Kyoko says. Her palm presses flat against the wooden table, their hands an inch away. She’s staring down at her, lavender hair falling over her eyes. The café is small, everything feels small, forcing them closer, every piece of the world descending over their heads.

Celeste sees right through her. Alright, she relents. Go on.

Her breath is locked in her lungs. They’re as close as they can get, without the physical contact, that is, keeping space between them. Kyoko asks softly, is that why we don’t we touch?

You. Celeste only says. It’s you.

No, she says back. It’s not just me.

Celeste raises an eyebrow.

Kyoko observes her carefully. Magnetism. The simplest answer is often the right answer, she replies. You have said this, no?

I see, Celeste says. So, science, I’m thinking—

Of course. Keep going.

Something to do with what you have said about gravity, she says. My phenomena of magnetism. And yours, with dichotomization.

Their bodies are nearing closer to each other. Celeste is looking up, invisible hands tilting her jaw up, and Kyoko’s bending down, looking, invisible hands bending the plates of her spine. The world is over to them both.

Have you heard, she asks, of polarities? Of magnetic domains?

Opposites attract, Celeste nods. However, people aren’t magnets, and we aren't opposites.

Her smirk shifts into a smile. Correct, Kyoko says. The glaring difference. Unlike magnets, people are much harder to tear apart once they’re together.

And I thought I was the teacher, Celeste says, rolling her eyes fondly.

Kyoko smiles, then turns away at the last second, going to the kitchen.

Celeste is left fuming in her seat.)

* * *

They don’t touch. They never touch.

Except Celeste’s forgotten that fact.

After a few months, she’s sure they’ve touched. In passing, maybe, squeezing by each other when exiting the café. Walking side-by-side with Hagakure and Asahina to the bar, arms skidding when being handed her order, the moments when they’re alone. They’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time together; there’s no way she hasn’t brushed with at least one part of Kirigiri’s body at this point. It stops becoming something she even thinks about, because logically speaking, they must have.

She’s grading coursework on her usual spot one Friday evening with a serving of the usual milk tea and cheesecake, the shop’s empty; Asahina’s cooking, and Hagakure’s managing the counter. Not that he’s doing anything much, customers are slow here around weekend evenings. He stands up and leaves, grumbling about counting inventory at the storage room.

Kirigiri mutters something about the monthly rent under her breath, crass and impertinent. Celeste giggles at something one of her students has written and Kirigiri glances at her, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, and Celeste’s laughter dies slightly. It stills turns her on.

She asks, “What is it?”

Celeste turns her laptop to her. One of the questions had been to describe what the D in D-day stands for and how it came to be. One boy had written, I didn’t review for this quiz, so I’m not saying ‘doom’ or ‘deliverance’ because I don’t know which one is the right answer. Therefore, I’m answering both and nothing at the same time.

Kirigiri laughs, too. “He got it half-right. D doesn’t stand for anything at all.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?” She agrees, grinning.

Before Kirigiri goes back to her station, she absently looks at the empty cup Celeste’s used. “Another one of these?”

“Lovely, but no thanks,” she says gratefully, waving her off. Kirigiri reaches out to it, and she’s still holding the cup while gripping at her laptop. She waits for it, smile playing on her lips, and she feels something dusting the underside of her fingers and grazing against—

Everything explodes underneath her skin.

That’s the only way she can describe it. Her heart liquefies, thaws and transforms into its own star, the fire crackling endlessly, flaring, viciously hot and pounding. The universe twists and curls itself around her veins, clutching to her blood vessels like lifelines, the impact of supernovae gouging into muscle. Copernicus, she remembers saying once, the sun is the center of the universe. She feels something unfold inside of her, like her soul has pulled her ribs apart in a desperate, aching attempt to reach the heart of the woman across her.

They’re staring into each other’s eyes, still and unmoving. Both their jaws are hanging wide open.

All they do is keep looking, breath caught in their throats—maybe it’s frozen in there, turned to ice like everything else around them. She would, too, she thinks, turn to ice—if Kirigiri hadn’t been there to keep it at bay.

“Oh,” she breathes out, fighting the urge to shudder without understanding why.

Actually, Celeste isn’t even sure why she says anything—never being so driven to speechlessness, until now, that is. Her heart throbs the way volcanoes do, blood pumping through her veins in scorching hot fire and an explosion; ruptures of planetary-mass, she recalls Kirigiri saying, they are converging. And oh, she feels like that too, like magma, pushing herself forward from the inside out. There is a process, a system, a methodology, and there is the inevitability. Unending. Boundless. This moment is all risks rolled into one.

Well, she’s knows her history, so she knows risks; she’s used to taking risks. Kirigiri’s eyes glaze over, any previous thought spilling out between them lost and meaningless; she sees it, there’s a different story beginning, there’s too much implications, too much expectations. Kirigiri Kyoko now just looks like every gamble with life Celeste’s ever taken rolled up into one. The opportunity throws itself at her. It’s not the only thing.

“A fundamental change in the very concept of things,” Kirigiri begins quietly, leaning down slowly, her stare dropping to Celeste’s mouth, anchoring itself there. “Call it the paradigm shift.”

“Call it progress,” Celeste says back, moving closer. Kirigiri only watches, stops moving, but the look in her eyes, the glint of the light, the sparks of a roaring fire, the way her pupils eclipse the lilac of her irises—there’s a thunderstorm brewing—she’s craving, longing, hungry. Just as planned. Whose plan it is, Celeste’s not quite sure.

“Polarities,” Kirigiri whispers, visibly shivering for a second, it’s as if her bones were aching like she was the highest point in a lightning strike; her flesh a conduit. (Electricity is augmented, Celeste remembers saying, there needs to be two.)

“Magnetic domains,” Celeste adds for her, and finally smiles; there’s a flirtation to it, like the finale to this dance, a specific sort of pining, “and yet, people aren’t magnets.” She’s trying to shatter this inexplicable and illogical intensity between them before they devolve into nothing entirely; Celeste picks up on their slack. It’s necessary before they turn to dust.

“I thought you despised me,” Kirigiri teases, unmoving.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Celeste says, her fingers slipping across the unclothed area of Kirigiri’s wrist, staying there, her skin feels white-hot, incandescent.

“Interesting development,” Kirigiri doesn’t drop her hand, likely feeling the same sensation. “Just kidding, I know.”

“I’ll reconsider even talking to you if you didn’t,” she says, dragging Kirigiri comfortably into her personal space. There’s always got to be a breaking point. And Kirigiri allows it, lets her toy around with her tie. “I can’t imagine talking to you now if you were dense to my advancements the entire time.”

“Cute.” Kirigiri counters dryly, and her hands drop to Celeste’s palms, stops there. It’s distinctly exploratory, like she’s trying to remember all the skin she’s mapping. Celeste watches her take her gloves off, feels her fingers brush against her jawline, and there’s the universe again, sprawling across their arms and the dip of her chin, and her breath hitches, spiralling until the cosmos are reborn in her lungs and her heart is too small to contain the world falling over their heads.

“Cute is _not_ a word to describe me.” She quips, but flushes at the compliment nonetheless. Kirigiri’s almost pressed against her now and it’s addicting, the way her lips dry out and her arteries strike themselves a spark below her skin, like a match, like steel against steel. Friction. “Was this in your calculations, Kirigiri-san?”

“I’m no scientist,” Kirigiri laughs once, breathless. “And the concept of soulmates is no science.”

That’s only the answer she needs; Celeste smiles up at her, leans in, and Kirigiri stops on an inhale, barrier in her lungs, everything slowly starts to cease existing, the only thing left being the blank starkness of the world, and then—

Hagakure throws the doors of the storage room wide open. “Closing time’s at nine my dudes,” he’s saying, holding a bunch of boxes, comprehension not as quick as his mouth. He’s halfway through, “So what’s up—what—wait,” when he finally internalizes their intimate position and halts, jaw on the floor. “Holy shit—”

“Huh?” Asahina walks in from the kitchen, flexing and popping her knuckles. The thousand pounds of electricity in the atmosphere finally dissolves. “Hey, what’s going on—oh.”

She stares at them and the situation they’re in.

They stare back.

“Called it.”

“…you bet on us?” Kirigiri asks mildly.

“Obviously,” Asahina drawls with a smile. “Yasuhiro-kun, you owe me a thousand yen.”

* * *

(They’re in her room and Kyoko doesn’t think twice; she isn’t unsure or nervous or hesitating. They’re just in a place they’re supposed to be, relearning what is already known and once forgotten. She unbuttons her dress. Celeste straddles her, stares at her like she can see through her, see the depth of space, see the Andromeda, see everywhere, see somewhere.

She whispers, the paradigm, holding Celeste’s hips, the noise of her murmuring dulls to a drone, a hum, like it was piece of the space they’re in. There’s something feral about the grip, something that claims. Something that devours.

So your version of pillow talk is being a smartass, Celeste says, amused. I didn’t expect anything else. Call it the law of attraction, dear, she whispers back anyway, playing along. Kyoko wants to chart everything about it, pressing her mouth against the crook of Celeste’s neck, the insides of her wrists, the valley of her collarbones, the dip in the middle of her chest, everywhere a pulse is and feeling the way it beats against her lips. Her fingers link between hers, their palms pressed tight, lifelines merging into a single limitless span.

Celeste’s smirk flickers in her peripheral, gasping but not quite, so Kyoko thumbs at her hip, other fingers digging roughly against the indent; this isn’t fair in the slightest, it’s impossible by design, this senselessness, this crackling fire, there’s so much to consume and somehow it still burns.

Fuck you, Celeste exhales, tilting her head back on instinct, eyelids fluttering; she’s on the edge and the solidness of Kyoko’s form beneath her is the only thing keeping her steady. There is no anger, and if she were any stranger the distaste may seem momentarily indistinguishable from the desire—it’s all under the same night sky, the same hypothesis, the same lick of flame—but Celeste only realizes it after, enclosing her fingers around Kyoko’s wrist and jerking.

They fall out of the seams, fraying away from the light of the windows and into darker corners, and _god damn_ , Celeste breathes out viciously, tone darkly unbound, feeling flowers bloom from where their skin connects, and they’re all flare, burning, devastating, destructive. Kyoko’s just practically throwing herself across whatever line Celeste’s pushed her to.

She barely breathes, let alone thinks, and everything has long stopped making sense in her head—she can see the anatomy of the world fluctuating, reshaping, everything converges, and the two of them are in the middle of it—important, significant. The pull is overpowering, overwhelming, unbeatable, and there’s no use resisting. Paradigm. Pendulum. Progress. Fundamental change in previously accepted or unexplored scientific systems—this is no science, she corrects herself. Of course.

Drop dead, Celeste finally breathes out. She’s falling apart, words hard and unflinching.

Kyoko knows what she genuinely means.

Oh, what she really hears. It’s you.)

* * *

Everything is impossibly small—the world has shrunk—the bubble between them given different names and variables, infinite, unable to pinpoint. It’s close to the twenty-fifth of December, and the evening is uncharacteristically quiet. Asahina and Hagakure are out with other friends. Kirigiri’s alone at her flat. Celeste knows the shop’s closed, so she drops by and she lets her in. It’s cold but Kirigiri’s sleeves are rolled up so her arms are in view. Maybe that’s what does it for Celeste—she knows.

It’s more than what she’s hoped for, but nothing like she’s expected at all. There’s so much words to use—but they all feel lacking, like second alternatives. She sees Kirigiri Kyoko and something settles into her, digs under her skin, and all it does is make her feel like she was unravelled one layer at a time until it’s only her left. Vulnerable, raw, come undone.

The room glitters, all the lights blurred, the shadows melt into the dark.

When they’re together like this, it’s possible, Celeste thinks, for everything to never truly end.

Kirigiri glances over at her, her mouth curling into a grin at the way she’s staring, head tilted and eyes squinting. Celeste begins, “So, science.”

“Let’s hear it,” Kirigiri answers, turning the page of a book.

“I despise you,” she coos. “I also jest.”

Kirigiri rolls her eyes. “Get on with it.”

“I have a theory,” she clears her throat like she’s about to deliver a presentation. Kirigiri holds back a smirk, a little flush on her cheeks but she seems okay with ignoring it, like it was second nature; it’s not unusual for her to be blushing now after Celeste smiles, or laughs, or does almost anything, really, it’s kind of embarrassing—

“Magnetism,” she says, and thinks of the dance—the name doesn’t matter anymore, but she still remembers every detail of what it is; it’s all about the chemistry, the repressed desire, and the artistry of everything coming to ruin afterwards. “Polarities. Electricity is augmented.”

Kirigiri pauses, contemplating, but it’s so brief she can’t be sure it happened at all. “Focus,” she says. Celeste’s suddenly in possession of the idea that if they don’t go talk about this now, she won’t have the self-control to stop. It seems like such a crime to back away, like she’s in need of the answer vocalized out loud. “Focus on magnetism.” Kirigiri says again.

She walks over to her, shuts the book and says, “It’s the law of attraction.”

“I taught you this, yes.” Kirigiri says calmly, opening the book again. “Now, it’s your turn to teach me.”

Celeste says, “There are more important things.” She can see the night sky through the ceiling, the sun that devours, everything expanding with the weight of the empyreans. The planet tilts a few degrees. Her heels feel like different inches. Latitude and longitude mean nothing. Everything is aimless. “Beyond the paradigm.”

“Tell it to me?” Kirigiri asks, smiling.

“A theory about people like you and I,” she starts, tracing the lines of Kirigiri’s palms, counting, memorizing every detail. Navigating. Charting. “Think of what you’ve said—about magnetism. Objects drawing close to each other no matter what stands in their way. Unstoppable forces.”

“Of course. Keep going.”

“Quantum suicide and immortality, and again, the law of attraction.” Everything they’re saying sweeps farther and farther from rationality—but the concept of soulmates is no science. It’s impossible by design. This moment is too beautiful to be deconstructed. She avoids being verbose, and instead just says, “We get it right eventually, don’t we? We find each other. It’s what we do.”

Kirigiri stands and moves closer to her, but doesn’t respond immediately. Celeste can see it though, the way the idea sinks inside of her; leaving themselves to fate. It’s worked before; the right place at the right time, a few steps forward, steps back, steps and steps again. They’ve always been drawn together. The law of attraction. It’s no science, but there’s joy finding logic in notions beyond belief.

There’s a dull pause; Kirigiri’s eyes fall back to her body with purpose, intent, and she feels the pathways of her blood vessels, how they throb and sting and burn.

Celeste stares back.

“Maybe we can,” Kirigiri finally manages. “People like me and you.”

And so, here’s the real, _real_ truth:

Celeste’s in love with her the moment she lays eyes on her.

She doesn’t know which one of them dives in first; maybe she arches her neck, maybe Kirigiri tilts her head, maybe she grabs Kirigiri’s jaw, maybe Kirigiri pulls her mouth against hers. Someone shifts, the pendulum, and Kirigiri’s lips are suddenly hovering dangerously above her own, and all she has to do is lean up—

Their mouths touch the barest amount, not even a kiss but a longing, a certain sort of flirtation. Celeste’s body vibrating like the planet was shifting underneath her feet; she inhales shakily, fingers curling into lavender hair tighter, and Kirigiri sighs like she’s giving up, her lips finding Celeste’s again solidly, slowly. It’s the most mind-numbing, torturous kiss she’s ever had—no, it’s barely even a kiss, it’s circumnavigation—she opens her mouth, and then Kirigiri’s tongue caresses hers; Celeste tugs her closer, and Kirigiri’s hands find her hips and _hold_ , marking into skin—

“Shit,” Kirigiri rasps out when Celeste breaks it off to breathe. “I—”

That won’t do, she’s had enough of logic and words—all they’d done is talk and dance—she kisses Kirigiri again, hunger and devastation slamming into her with such a force it’s too much, it’s vitriolic, it’s ferocious. She needs more, wants her, wants to have her, belong to her, touch her. The stars swallow her heart, chest expanding with the space of the universe. Everything’s rotating around them and they stand still in the center—she’s just finding it hard to believe the world hasn’t been sucked into a void and only the two of them were left alone, in this empty space.

She manages, inexplicably. It’s all lost to anticipation now—building up and breaking down. “So,” Celeste breathes out when they part, Kirigiri dazed and red-lipped. “What do you think?”

A beat of silence, the crackling of the fire. “I think,” Kirigiri starts, swallows, starts again. Celeste feels the hot breaths over her face. “I think I’m in way over my head.”

“Good,” Celeste says, and kisses her as though the tide was settling in.

**Author's Note:**

> breaking: hagakure goes broke and asahina is a few thousand yen richer


End file.
